


touch-me-not

by lumively



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Song: Dress (Taylor Swift), Song: illicit affairs (Taylor Swift), Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumively/pseuds/lumively
Summary: "You're much prettier from up close," he breathes out, leaning forward.Dejun feels his breath getting stuck in his throat."T-thank you," he stutters out.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67
Collections: Challenge #5 — I heard a secret..





	touch-me-not

> _What started in_ _be_ _a_ _u_ _tiful r_ _o_ _o_ _ms_
> 
> _Ends with meetings in parking lots_

Jeno peers out of the window. 

It's a dark subterranean parking lot, the ground is damp as moisture seeps through the cracks on the walls. 

The neon lights on the ceiling flicker and buzz like fluorescent fireflies on a summer's night. 

Jeno exits the black SUV with a black facemask on, a black turtleneck jumper clinging to his body, a black coat hanging from his arm. Dark hair, dark eyes. 

He looks like one of those terrible, irresistible creatures that lurk in the shadows, ready to corrupt men and women alike. 

A grey car with tinted windows pulls up in a free space opposite him, far enough so it doesn't seem planned, just coincidental. 

Dejun gracefully hops out of the vehicle. 

There is a soft sheen about him, a striking beauty like catching a glimpse of a pearl through clear seawater. 

He must have caught the rain, Jeno thinks. 

They barely acknowledge one another as they climb the marble stairs that lead to the hotel reception; but deep down a magnetic pull, as immaterial as it is strong, binds them together, indissoluble. 

It's Dejun who takes the key card from the receptionist, who leads him to the lifts. Jeno follows him quietly. He loves the thrill of the chase.

The elevator ride is sweet torture. The air is charged with tension, hot, unbearable. Dejun lets a couple of buttons come undone, just to breathe a little easier. 

Next to him, Jeno’s dark eyes follow the swift movement of his fingers, drinking in the glimmer of pale skin underneath damp cotton. 

Jeno grips at his own wrist. His hand clenches and unclenches. He wants to touch so badly. 

_Soon_. 

There is a promise in Dejun's heated gaze. 

The anticipation kills Jeno a million little times and every time it feels like pure euphoria, like a burning spear going through his chest. 

The elevator finally stops with a _ding!_ that temporarily startles the two men out of their wordless conversation. 

Room 520.

Dejun swipes the card and they enter the hotel room in a rush, door slamming loudly behind them. 

Jeno cannot contain himself anymore. 

In an instant he has Dejun pinned against the hard surface of the door. He looks deliciously debauched with his white shirt half-unbuttoned, hair falling messily over his forehead, glistening lips parted in a sigh. An angel caught sinning. 

And Jeno is utterly devoted to such celestial being. 

"I missed you," he exhales against the warm skin of his neck, feeling Dejun's heart thrumming underneath his open lips. 

His tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sweat at the hollow of his throat. He tastes salt, bitter traces of perfume, and something characteristically Dejun, earthy and sweet. 

Perfect.

"Missed you, too," Dejun gasps, as Jeno starts to nip at his collarbones, making his way down his exposed chest. 

Dejun runs his hands through Jeno's hair, blunt nails scraping his nape. He tugs his dark dishevelled locks, pulling him up, pulling him closer. 

"Baby, come up here, please," he begs, voice airy and dripping with impatience. 

> _Our secret moments in a crowded room_
> 
> _They got no idea about_ _m_ _e_ _a_ _nd_ _y_ _o_ _u_ _._

The first time they meet Jeno is blond and Dejun feels small. Small and insignificant, to be exact. A nobody in a room full of bright stars, suffocated by the stench of fame and luxury. 

He isn't used to all this opulence, all these perfect teeth, shiny shoes and champagne flutes. He is but a small artist getting his first proper taste of notoriety and it feels slightly bitter on his tongue. 

He is proud of what he achieved: a feature on the original soundtrack of the highest-rated show of the year is undoubtedly a great accomplishment that will definitely serve as a stepping stone for him to carve out a successful music career, but still it doesn’t feel right. 

He wants to be known for the right reasons and to him that means showing his true self through his own words, his own music. 

He sighs.

It’s nice to dream. 

He plucks the maraschino cherry from his glass, pops it in his mouth and lets his sweet juice burst against his tongue, wetting his palate. His cocktail is all ice now, with a thin reddish line of liquor at the bottom. 

He lets his body sag against the cream coloured camelback sofa, half-hidden in a corner of the luxurious main hall. 

At least the drinks are free at this fancy gala. 

“Excuse me?”

A small voice coming from behind the red curtain that drapes beautifully over the crystal windows makes Dejun turn around. 

A thin woman emerges from the waves of satin. Her hair is neatly tied in a low ponytail and she’s dressed in a crisp white blouse and black tailored pants. 

A waitress, Dejun quickly realizes. 

“For you,” she murmurs as she hands him a folded napkin.

He accepts the napkin from the woman’s pristine gloved hand. She retreats without uttering a word, while Dejun opens up the cloth to reveal a small piece of paper with something written on it. 

Scribbled in hasty Korean, the message reads: 

“ _I've been staring at you all night._

_You're so beautiful and I've been dying to talk to you._

_In private._

_Meet me on the balcony, if you wish_."

Dejun feels his face flush and looks up from the paper, scanning the room with wide eyes, hoping to somehow identify the person who wrote those words that managed to make his heart flutter. 

He looks and looks, waiting for a sign. A small yet unequivocal gesture, a particular glint in someone's eyes, a semblance of a smile directed only at him. 

Unfortunately, nothing stands out. 

Everyone seems to be caught in their own conversations or simply lingering around the bar, lost in thought over a glass of expensive liquor. 

There isn't any kind of signature, just the fading logo of a five stars resort, Dejun notices as he flips the note around. 

He bites his lip. His leg starts bouncing up and down. 

Maybe, just maybe, it's all a prank and Dejun shouldn't be getting his hopes up. 

Then why does he feel so excited, a rush of adrenaline spurring him on, as he stands and walks behind the curtains?

At first glance, there seems to be no-one outside. Dejun already feels the bitter punch of disappointment at the back of his throat: it was just a cruel joke, after all. 

But then, as he slowly nears, he notices a shadow, then a pair of large shoes, long legs clad in rose-coloured silk and then… 

"Hello," the timbre of his voice is silvery, slightly husky, unmistakable. 

On the balcony, with the moon behind him creating a beautiful silver aureole, stands Lee Jeno, child actor turned teenage heartthrob turned TV star. 

What a sight for Dejun's sore eyes. 

He's so handsome, Dejun can't help but feel slightly intimidated. 

The austere lines of his nose, his jaw, his built, everything screams power. 

But then when he smiles all his face lights up and his eyes seem to smile, too, melting away his aura of dominance. 

"You're much prettier from up close," he breathes out, leaning forward.

Dejun feels his breath getting stuck in his throat.

"T-thank you," he stutters out. 

He doesn't know what to say. Jeno is quiet, too. 

Then, slowly and oh so gently, he reaches out to cup Dejun's cheeks with his large hands. 

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice just above a whisper. 

Dejun's eyes flicker down to look at his own feet. 

"Yeah."

When they kiss, everything around them seems to disappear. It's just them in the darkness and the stars blinking far away, silent spectators of the birth of love. 

And so the first night they meet Jeno is blond and Dejun feels small, but perhaps not insignificant. 

No. 

No, because Dejun feels special, like the protagonist of his own love story, as the coils of desire wrap around his beating heart and he falls deeper and deeper into a stranger's arms.

> _Made your mark on me,_
> 
> _a golden tattoo_

Sometimes a small, insidious part of Dejun thinks it would be easier if they had never met. A little devil curls his hand around his ear and whispers: “How is this worth all the tears? All the sleepless nights waiting for that one phone call? All the interviews that feel like police interrogations and all the lyrics left unsung?”

And when Dejun listens to that small, cruel voice the claws of an unknown monster tear at his throat; they crush his chest, puncture his lungs, leaving him breathless.

“The end is near,” the little imp’s voice grates harshly against the shell of his ear. 

His eyes drift shut.

And every single time, without fail, strong hands pull him out of the darkness into the daylight.

Cool fingertips soothe his skin like a balm, warm lips are at his temple worshipping his skin where it feels the softest. 

His lungs fill with new air, Zephyr’s gentle wind. 

He is reborn; he is stripped of everything, even the smallest of fears. 

Jeno’s love is bitter medicine and sweet poison at once. 

Dejun can’t get enough. 

He kisses the sighs out of Jeno’s parted mouth, pulls him closer so their hearts touch, beating in unison. When they’re like this, connected in the most intimate of ways, the hotel room becomes their own personal microcosm, a world fit for two. 

Jeno fills him up entirely, he’s so close Dejun feels him under his skin, behind his eyelids, in his every pore. 

He looks unreal, the picture of disinhibition with glistening sweat gathering at his temples, eyes half-lidded, lost in the pleasure. 

He starts moving faster, deeper. A quiet litany spills out of his lips: “I love you, love you…”

Dejun cradles his nape, their mouths touch in a searing kiss. 

“Love you, too.”

❤

The city flows by the car window in a stroboscopic blur. Dejun sighs, sinks further into his seat. If Seoul still doesn’t feel like home, Seoul at night gives him a foreign sense of nostalgia he can’t quite figure out. 

The jungle of neon lights makes his head hurt a little, so he lets his eyes close for a moment. 

He should be tired, but there’s still remnants of adrenaline simmering in his blood, red-hot and glowing. Jeno’s earthy cologne still clings to his skin like a phantom tattoo, a fleeting memento of their encounter. 

He feels the car coming to a stop. His eyes flutter open and he sees among a sea of still vehicles the traffic lights flickering red from afar. 

He turns his head to his left to look out of the window once again, which is now framing a picture of the city undisturbed by motion. 

A kaleidoscope of miscellaneous adverts plays on a tall building, illuminating the air of the night with its fluorescent colours. 

There are so many different brands pushed together in a weird puzzle: fast-food, luxury clothing, insurance policies and-

“Oh.”

He blinks a couple of times. 

Is that…?

He leans forward, nose almost touching the cold glass. 

Fate likes to play tricks on him, it seems, because among all the visual pollution there’s _him_. 

A huge picture of famed actor Lee Jeno, _his_ Jeno, posing sultry and perfect with his index finger pressed against his lips. It’s for some sort of perfume, but it might as well be an editorial photoshoot since Jeno makes a simple white shirt and a tie look like haute couture garments.

“The secret of success,” the tagline reads.

Jeno's dark eyes bore into his.

Dejun smiles — a little bit forlornly, a little bit bashful — and he averts his gaze. 

What a privilege it must be to be able to breathe in that secret, feel it seep into your skin. Like a phantom tattoo, like a memento of a clandestine encounter. 

  
  



End file.
